


he can't help but let me in

by brandonsaad (createadisaster)



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:52:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12003465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/createadisaster/pseuds/brandonsaad
Summary: Lovett had picked PSCI218, The American Presidency, for exactly two reasons: one, he was completely on track to graduate at the end of the spring as long as he shoved this last bullshit social sciences general education requirement into his schedule somewhere, and two, Professor Jonathan Favreau had a low difficulty rating and a little red chili pepper on ratemyprofessor.com.“I like my professors the way I like most things,” Lovett had joked to his roommate, “Hot and easy.”





	he can't help but let me in

**Author's Note:**

> we're all coping with 2017 in our own ways. don't worry about it. keep it secret, keep it safe, etc etc.

Lovett had picked PSCI218, The American Presidency, for exactly two reasons: one, he was completely on track to graduate at the end of the spring as long as he shoved this last bullshit social sciences general education requirement into his schedule somewhere, and two, Professor Jonathan Favreau had a low difficulty rating and a little red chili pepper on ratemyprofessor.com. 

“I like my professors the way I like most things,” Lovett had joked to his roommate, “Hot and easy.” Tommy had laughed way harder than the joke deserved, because Tommy is also hot and easy.

Anyway.

All the reviews had talked about how he was a great teacher, and also gorgeous, and one review ranted about liberal indoctrination and bias in higher education, which was fine by him, and so Lovett was registered and set to go on Wednesdays and Fridays at 2 pm.

Well, 2:05 pm. Because he’s never been in this building before, right, and also he was chatting with his favorite professor after Applied Dynamics and Optimal Control, which really seemed like it was going to be fascinating, and then it would have been rude to not ask how her summer went, and _then_ he needed to swing by the advisor’s hall on the third floor before he could leave because after he’d been a research assistant last semester, he knew there was always Diet Coke in the mini fridge in the staff kitchen, and then it was 1:55 and at that point he was going to be late anyway so he didn’t walk that fast.

“Call me Jon, alright,” Hot Professor Favreau is saying when Lovett walks in, “This is a no bullshit kind of classroom. I want us to be able to have a conversation. Grab a syllabus and take a seat.” He directs the last bit at Lovett, and so he does, swipes a syllabus off the stack on the front table and slides into the closest open desk, front and center. 

He does his best not to stare, but. The red chili pepper could not have prepared him for the realities of that face. Lovett kind of wants to hit him, but like, in a sexy way. He keeps having to look down at the syllabus to ground himself while Jon explains the readings, the papers, the expectations. It all seems workable, like he should be able to handle it just fine along with the rest of his actual major coursework. He’s less sure he’ll be able to handle that face.

“Alright,” says Jon, after he’s talked about the plan for the class and his own credentials, “Now I want to know more about you guys. We’ll go around the room and I want your name, major, why you’re here, and, uhh, let’s just do a fun fact.”

Lovett groans. He doesn’t mean to, exactly, but he’s not great at holding things in. This is his last first class meeting, and the only one not in his major, and he really thought he might get a clean sweep of not having to do these stupid introductions. 

“Great,” says Jon, “We have a volunteer to start.”

It takes Lovett a second to realize he means him. “Oh! Hi guys. I’m Jon Lovett, just call me Lovett, I’m a fourth year math major.”

“And your fun fact?” prompts Jon.

“Didn't you hear me? I’m a math major, that was obviously the fun part, how dare you,” says Lovett, deadpan, and Jon laughs harder than the joke deserves, laughs with his whole body, tilts his head back. 

Lovett stares at his neck and feels the oddest sense of pride, like he’s done something right.

-

Jon very highly values participation, meaning that for the first couple weeks, Lovett half-assedly does the readings and shows up with one thing worth saying and calls it a day. He’s never had to work that hard to do well, and he likes politics enough that hitting “good enough” isn't too demanding.

Then one day, once everyone’s settled into the school year beginning again, when he’s gotten in the swing of classes, he notices the look on Jon’s face when he calls on him. It’s this easy, openmouthed smile, expectant, like he’s just waiting for Lovett to blow him away. He’s _beautiful_ , and Lovett stumbles on the delivery of his quip about federal judges, but Jon’s smile widens into a laugh anyway.

Lovett is so fucking proud of himself. He starts chasing that feeling, making sure he deserves that reaction. He starts taking careful notes on the readings, sitting closer to the front of the classroom. Starts calling him Professor Favreau, because he can tell he likes it.

Starts going to office hours. He’s never done that before on any regular basis, not if he didn’t have any specific questions, but he finds that he just—loves talking about this stuff with him! He loves the way Jon looks at him when he’s talking himself through a point, when he doesn’t know where a sentences going to end when he begins it, when he figures out how he feels by arguing with himself. 

They only ever talk about politics. They talk about the powers of the Presidency and about current events. Jon leans across his desk and prompts Lovett to keep going. Lovett always walks home feeling like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. 

-

Lovett spreads two open books, his laptop, a printed essay, and his notebook across Jon’s desk, takes up space like it doesn’t occur to him not to. He’s talking about his midterm essay plan, explaining that he’s debating between an analysis of Bill Clinton’s legislative successes across terms or maybe a broader comparison of the major legislative successes of Clinton and W, and Jon comes around the desk to stand next to Lovett’s chair, leans over him so he can look over Lovett’s pile of sources better. 

He puts a hand on Lovett’s shoulder. His thumb touches Lovett’s neck, just above his collar.

Lovett goes immediately, abruptly quiet. 

Jon _can’t_ stand there that long, but it feels like a thousand years. “You’re on a really good track,” he says. He doesn’t move his hand. “Either would be fine.”

It’s a remarkably unhelpful visit, and Lovett is no closer to an outline for his paper than when he got there. He starts grinning like an idiot the second he leaves Jon’s office, and beams the whole way home.

-

The thing is, Professor Favreau always seems so genuinely interested in his opinions, like he really values his thoughts. It’s the first time an authority figure has really paid attention to him like this. He’s only human. It can’t be that shocking he develops a bit of a crush. Everybody who's ever met Jon has a crush on him. That doesn’t mean there’s anything reciprocated here. Professor Favreau is extremely handsome, and Lovett jerks off thinking about him sometimes, and this crush is good for his GPA and that’s _it_. 

Jon laughs at all his jokes and always leans in a little bit and sometimes he stares and he doesn’t look away when Lovett catches him, like he’s waiting for him to say something—but Lovett isn’t an idiot. He’s not going to read into it. 

-

“Are you failing?” Tommy asks from their kitchen table, watching Lovett pack up his bag. “Is that why you’re always going to office hours now?”

“I’m an extremely responsible and hardworking student and always have been,” says Lovett, redfaced. “Shut the fuck up.”

-

Lovett stops for Starbucks on his way to the library, but his order gets fucked up and he has an extra, and then he figures he might as well stop by the political science building to see if Jon is in and if he wants it. Jon beams at him when he sees him. It’s probably just because of the coffee.

-

He doesn’t actually know how Jon takes his coffee, but he’s not showing up empty-handed again. He learns on trial and error, cataloguing the crinkles in his eyes when he tastes it and smiles.

“Weird how often Starbucks messes up your order,” says Jon, amused. “And how it’s always my favorite.”

“So weird,” Lovett agrees, but he can’t hold in his smile. His _favorite._

-

Fall turns to winter. The semester ends. Lovett realizes all at once he isn’t going to see Jon three times a week anymore, and he doesn’t have any room in his spring semester schedule for electives, and he really does not have the money to keep buying them both coffee. He’s not sure how to face all those realities.

Lovett stops by a few days after the final under the pretense of asking if Jon had graded his exam yet. 

Before he can ask, Jon blurts, “Are you taking any more courses in this department?”

No, is the answer, because he really, really can’t. “Maybe,” he says, because he really, really wants to. “I got a lot out of this course. What are you teaching next semester?”

“Only graduate courses,” Jon says, too quick, “You wouldn’t be eligible.”

Lovett’s heart sinks. He’s looked at the course handbook already, and Jon is teaching a 200 level, Voters and Elections, and a 300, Bureaucracy and Public Policy. Jon—Professor Favreau—just _lied_ to him, and Lovett is suddenly, horribly wondering if he’s long overstayed his welcome.

“But you’re always welcome here,” Jon says, talking a little too fast, like he’s scrambling for words. Lovett’s been in that position a thousand times but he’s not that used to seeing it from him. “I mean it, I really hope you’ll still come by.” He pauses, smiles a little hopefully. “What would I do without my coffee order, right?” 

It sounds so, so much like _what would I do without you_. Lovett’s heart skips a beat.

“Then I guess I should still come see you sometimes,” he says, “Um, for the coffee.”

“I guess you should,” says Jon. He looks relieved. Lovett starts smiling, and forgets to ask about his final before he leaves.

-

Lovett does come visit more during spring semester—not quite as often at first, because he’s drowning in schoolwork and struggling to care, but then Jon says he doesn’t have a TA this semester and so Lovett’s welcome to use the spare desk anytime, if he needs a break from the library, and honestly at this point he’s gone enough on Jon that he’s willing to take basically any opportunity to hang out around him, and then it turns out to be a really effective workspace, because he can sprawl his shit out all over the extra desk and still do all his work right across from Jon where he’d always sit to talk politics, while Jon uses the computer on his other side, and all of a sudden they’re well past midterms and Lovett has potentially gotten too comfortable being two feet of desk away from Jon.

Here’s the thing: Lovett talks while he works, always has. It’s really just to himself. It keeps him focused. It makes working in libraries kind of iffy, and his roommates have learned to tune it out. 

Jon, though, Jon _answers_ , and then they both get distracted, and then they end up in a conversation and half the time Lovett doesn’t know how they got there. Like, today. He _knows_ he was working on his thesis, but then he was complaining about something in the news, but now—

“So I spent the last three nights at his place and he keeps making me breakfast, which is like, kind of extra, and he wants to cuddle all the time and _that’s_ gay for sure, but like a week ago he was hooking up with a freshman at a fucking frat party, and so we keep getting in these stupid arguments and then he texts me and I end up going over there _anyway_ —”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Jon interrupts. “He’s not treating you right.”

Lovett has to take a second to process that, sets down his pen, looks back over at Jon. He’s done a lot of talking without getting commentary from him. But Jon is staring, a look on his face unlike any Lovett’s seen before. “Um,” says Lovett, lets out a small, nervous giggle. “What?”

“He’s not taking care of you like you need,” Jon says. 

Lovett wonders, a little wildly, if he’s hallucinating. Having a heart attack. Having a stroke. There has to be an extremely serious medical reason that he thinks Jon is hitting on him right now, kind of a lot. He feels squirmy and flushed under his gaze. “Right,” he says, a little high pitched, “Totally. Um, did you see that piece in the Atlantic about, um, the albatross census?”

“Yes,” says Jon, “Is that what you’d rather talk about?”

“No,” says Lovett. It is not a squeak, but only barely.

“Good,” says Jon. “Does he take care of you?”

Lovett steadies himself. His voice is more even this time. “No.”

“I could, though.” Jon leans over the desk, looks right at Lovett. “Take care of you.”

He takes in a sharp breath, matches his gaze. He knows he could and maybe even should walk out of this—this feels like Jon found the line of what’s appropriate and then took a flying leap over it, but Lovett has never cared much for appropriate. He says, very careful, "I'm sure you could."

They stare at each other for an amount of time anywhere between a few seconds and a full year. Lovett can’t be sure.

He finds his voice first. “Why don’t you?” It’s meant to be a challenge and comes out a plea, and Jon barely misses a beat before he’s half out of his chair, taking Lovett’s face in his hands, and kissing him over the desk.

He melts into it, stands up to meet him in the middle. He brings one hand up to hold onto one of Jon’s wrists, reaches out with the other and lands on his shoulder, clutches his shirt. He makes a very quiet sound, just can’t keep it in, and Jon shushes him, real gentle.

It is, Lovett thinks, a Tuesday afternoon. It was a completely normal Tuesday afternoon! Ten minutes ago!

Jon breaks the kiss. Lovett only has room for a moment of panic before Jon curls his hand around the back of Lovett’s neck. He presses their foreheads together and says, soft, “I’m going to lock the door. Is that alright?”

Lovett nods, but he doesn’t let go of Jon’s arm. He isn’t quite ready to stop being touched.

Jon laughs a little bit, presses another, briefer kiss to his lips. That first kiss had all the buildup and desperation of these months of wanting, but this second one is much gentler and sweeter. "I’m going to lock the door," he says again, and pulls away for real this time. "I promise I'm not going far."

Lovett's pink already, and there's a part of him that wants to argue, obviously he's not going _far_ , he's not _worried_ , but instead he says, "Good," and turns to watch as Jon crosses the room and fumbles a bit with the door handle.

They just look at each other. It's silent for a moment. Lovett's thought so much about this, but only ever in the abstract, in a dirty sexy wouldn't-it-be-crazy-if way. This has always been a fantasy, but now it's real, insanely and devastatingly real.

" _Lovett,_ " says Jon, and it sounds like something's broken open in him. He crosses the room in a few long strides, takes Lovett by the hips, and pins him against the desk. He brings a hand up to his face again, presses his thumb against his lip. He gently traces the curve of his mouth, and Lovett’s mouth falls open, just a bit, on instinct. But Jon doesn’t press inside, just keeps looking at him. 

He looks like he's about to say something, but Lovett waits a long moment and Jon doesn't speak. "What?" Lovett asks, because he's never let something go in his life and isn't starting now.

"You're so fucking beautiful," says Jon, drops his hand back down to his waist and pulls him in tight.

That is way too intimate to deal with, so Lovett just doesn’t. "Have you considered glasses? It sounds like you could use an eye exam, maybe all the grading gave you some strain—" He’s marginally aware that he's babbling but isn't sure how to stop it.

Jon kisses him. There's a way.

"Be quiet, sweetheart," he says, and Lovett nods, reaches up for him to yank him down closer.

His sexual experience so far has mostly been messy, slightly ill advised hookups in dorm rooms or at parties. He's never been kissed by someone who knows what he's doing like Jon does.

He sits on the edge of the desk and wraps his legs around him, fumbles with the buttons on his shirt and lets Jon grind down against him. Part of him wants to be cautious and make this special, make this last. 

Another part of him, the part he actually intends to listen to, accidentally rips a button off in his haste to get Jon's shirt open. "Sorry," he manages, but Jon, who's begun kissing down his jaw and neck, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt to expose more skin, doesn't seem to mind too much.

Lovett gets his shirt open and shoved back off his shoulders a bit, but Jon won't stop touching him long enough to actually get it down his arms. He bites at Lovett's neck a little, drawing a small, surprised moan out of him. "Can I—" Jon starts, presses a gentler, open mouthed kiss to the spot he'd bitten, "Can I leave marks?"

"You're like _forty_ ," Lovett protests, a little breathless. "Isn't that too old for hickeys?"

"Thirty-nine," says Jon, affronted, and bites him again, "Can I?"

"—I mean, yes," says Lovett, who has now had another second to think about it and cannot imagine turning down Jon’s mouth on him. "Yeah, totally."

Jon makes a smug sound and sucks a bruise onto his neck, then steps back to slide Lovett's shirt up and off over his head. He lets his own hang open and ducks down to kiss and suck down his neck, across his chest.

Lovett gets half hard basically just from sitting down in this office across from _Professor Favreau_. Now that he's bent over him, tonguing at his nipple and popping the button on Lovett's jeans, he's not sure he'll ever be able to think about something besides this in this room again.

"Here's the thing," Jon says, straightening up to kiss his mouth and then his neck, "If I leave marks, people will know you're somebody's. You're _mine_." He works his hand into the front of Lovett's jeans, wraps around his cock. Lovett whimpers. "These _stupid_ fucking college boys will know you've already got someone to take care of you."

The idea that Jon's been sitting on this, been jealous of the random guys Lovett's met and been having mediocre sex with is almost comical. He'd laugh if Jon wasn't pulling back, staring at him. Like he's _hungry_. 

"Take your pants off," he says.

Lovett does. Scrambles to, stands up off the desk so he can shove them down off his hips. Kicks his shoes off, shucks his jeans. He feels so exposed, like this, with his shirt discarded on the desk and his pants and briefs on the floor, and Jon is still just standing there, dressed. He's visibly hard, and Lovett wants to do so many things he doesn't even know where to start.

"I want to fuck you," says Jon, "I've been thinking about it for months."

He nods, tries not to look to eager. "Yes," he says, "Yes. _Months?_ "

Jon kisses him again instead of answering, shoves him back so he hits the desk, lifts him up a little to set him down on it, and steps back between his legs. Lovett locks his legs around his waist, crosses them at the ankles, keeps him closer. He wants to hold him there forever, wants to feel Jon in and over and around him. He’s barely touched his dick, just one all too brief moment, but Lovett’s already well on his way to wrecked. Jon’s hands are everywhere, twisting his nipples one moment, raking his nails down his ribs the next.

Lovett keeps intermittently remembering that it's _Tuesday afternoon_ during his _scheduled office hours_. 

Jon does not seem to be having the same problem. He's just murmuring a steady stream of filth into Lovett's ear, telling him he's beautiful, he's perfect, he can't wait to get inside him. 

Lovett can't manage much beyond a string of _yes, now, please_. He’s not even sure which words are coming out, because Jon’s hands have dropped to his ass, yanked him to the edge of the desk. He rocks up against him, desperate for some kind of contact on his achingly hard cock.

“Come on,” Jon says, a little breathless, a little mean. “You just gonna rub off against my thigh? Show me how bad you want me.”

“No,” Lovett says, but once he says it he’s lost the track of what he was objecting to, “I mean, yes, but—I want you to fuck me, Jon, please.”

Jon kisses him again, grips Lovett’s thighs tight and hitches them up a bit higher. He grinds down and Lovett moans, loud and uncontrolled, can’t keep it in.

“Shh,” Jon says, sharp, and pulls back from the kiss. “You’ve got to be quiet, love, or we have to stop.”

Under no circumstances does Lovett want _that_. “I can be quiet, I can, I’ll be good,” he promises, and it’s not that much quieter than the moaning, all things considered, but he pulls Jon back down into a kiss and he doesn’t seem that inclined to argue.

Jon’s kisses are filthy and demanding, but not sloppy in the way Lovett’s gotten used to from other people, from the stupid college boys Jon says he won't need anymore.

He grabs at Jon, lets his nails dig into his shoulders and tightens his legs around his waist. “Easy, easy,” murmurs Jon, but it comes out ragged, and he grinds down against Lovett’s cock like he needs this just as bad.

“Please,” manages Lovett, while Jon starts kissing down his neck, bites another mark. “I just—”

“I know,” says Jon, “I’ve got you,” and he kisses Lovett’s mouth again but then he’s _leaving_ , untangling himself and stepping back. Lovett makes an extremely undignified squeak of objection. “Just—one second,” says Jon, and goes around to the other side of the desk, opens a drawer and starts fumbling around in it.

“What are you—” Lovett starts, and then Jon holds up a small bottle of lube, triumphant. 

He’s speechless for a second. Jon comes back around to kiss him again, then puts his hands on Lovett’s thighs, spreads them apart. “Shh,” he says.

“You have lube in your fucking desk,” says Lovett, and he’s naked on that desk with his legs open but he’s still going to _laugh_. “How often do you fuck in here, _Professor_ , because you're going to make me feel not special.”

“You’re special,” says Jon immediately, and he pours a bit of the lube onto his palm, slicks up his fingers. “I’ve never had sex in here before, actually.” 

“Then why,” Lovett starts to ask, and Jon presses two fingertips against his asshole, rubs lightly. It's a lot harder to concentrate on the question, but he barrels on. “Why do you have it? Were you a Boy Scout? I bet you were a Boy Scout.”

“You talk too much,” says Jon, but he sounds more amused than annoyed, so Lovett takes it as a compliment and preens accordingly. “Spread your legs a little more, there's my good boy.”

Lovett obeys on instinct, tilts his hips toward Jon. He’s so sensitive there, and he’s fighting to keep himself still while Jon teases him, takes his time exploring him. He wants to insist, wants to tell Jon he doesn’t need to go so slow, that he doesn't want to take his time. That he wants him _inside_ him. He opens his mouth to argue, and then looks at Jon’s face.

Jon looks dazed, has the most painfully earnest, obvious adoration all over his face. Lovett shifts a little uncomfortably; between the featherlight touch of his hands and the near-reverence on his face, the intensity Jon’s attention is almost too much. He can feel himself flush, face hot and red. 

“Why do you have lube in your office?” Lovett asks again, looks down at where Jon’s touching him instead of meeting his eyes.

“I have lube in my office,” he says, casual, conversational, so at odds with the way he's been looking at Lovett, “because sometimes you’d leave, and I wouldn’t want wait to get home to get myself off.” 

He punctuates this devastating line by pushing his fingers in, just the right side of careless, and Lovett moans, can't hold it in.

“I told you to be quiet,” Jon says again, mild, and draws his fingers out. “You said you could be good.”

“You jerk off in this office thinking about me,” Lovett says, breathless, “I can't be quiet ever again and I think you know that, don't make me wait anymore, just—”

Jon kisses him and sinks his fingers back in. Lovett lets out a happy sigh into his mouth, brings his hands to his hair and holds him close. 

“Thank you,” he says, soft, and that clearly hits something in Jon, who moans and twists his fingers in him, starts fucking him in earnest. Lovett can’t quite stay coordinated enough to keep kissing him, has to duck his head into his neck and just close his eyes, breathe him in.

He does manage to keep his voice down, muffling his moans and gasps into Jon’s shoulder. He bites down instead of cries out when Jon adds a third finger and presses them in just right. “Good boy,” Jon murmurs, ragged, “How do you feel, sweetheart?”

“Don’t make me wait anymore,” Lovett pleads again, reaches down to fumble with Jon’s belt. He doesn’t know how he’s still _clothed_. The angle is bad, though, and Lovett’s getting desperate and a little clumsy. “Take these _off_.”

Jon kisses him, maybe to ease the sudden loss of his fingers, but Lovett pulls away. He wants to watch this, wants to see him. Jon doesn’t make a show of undressing; he strips down and grabs Lovett again, like even that was too much time not touching him. 

“Wait, wait, I want—” Lovett tries, and reaches between them, wraps his fingers around Jon’s cock. He feels warm and thick in his hand, and Jon lets out a shaky breath. “I’m good, I’m ready—”

Jon goes suddenly still, hands on Lovett’s thighs. “Shit,” he says.

Lovett’s eyes widen, and he looks at Jon, alarmed. “What?”

“I don’t have—I don’t have condoms here,” he says. 

Lovett nearly deflates with relief, and he smacks him in the shoulder. “Jesus _Christ,_ ” he says, “Don’t do that to me, I thought you were going to, you know, tell me to get dressed and go.”

Jon looks bewildered. “No,” he says, after a long moment, “That’s, uh. Kind of a non-option here.”

Lovett feels his heart flutter, and he hooks his leg back around Jon, presses up to kiss him. “Just—it’s fine,” he says, “Hey, really, it’s—I trust you. You could just...” 

Jon shakes his head, but he pulls Lovett up against him, wraps his arms around his waist. “We can just wait,” he says, unconvincing. 

“Or you could fuck me, right now,” Lovett says, keeps his voice low, kisses the spot where his neck meets his jaw. Jon’s arms tense around him. “I thought about this too, all the time, about you bending me over your desk and just—taking me. I don’t want to wait. I’ve _been_ waiting.”

Jon takes in a deep, slow breath, then nods. “That’s what you want,” he says.

“That’s what I want,” Lovett says, heartbeat racing.

Jon presses a kiss to his lips then says, voice low, “Stand up and turn around.”

Lovett does, leans over with his palms flat on the desk. His ass and thighs feel slick with lube; Jon’s bitten up his neck and chest. He can’t even imagine what he looks like right now, and he drops his head a little. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, lets it out. He’s a little overwhelmed with how badly he wants this.

Jon slaps his ass, just once, real quick. Lovett jolts and arches into the touch on instinct. “You with me, love?” he asks, and steps behind him, runs his hands up and down his sides and presses his hips against his ass. 

Lovett can feel his cock against him, and he _wants_ it. Wants Jon, inside him, bare. “Yes,” he says, takes a shaky breath. “Yes.”

Time slows to a crawl when Jon lines up, presses into him slowly. Lovett finds himself holding his breath, and lets it out when Jon is fully inside him. 

“You feel amazing,” Jon says, voice low and strained. “Fucking perfect, Lovett, you’re _perfect._ ”

Jon feels pretty fucking amazing himself, but it’s not enough. “ _Move,_ ” Lovett says, “Please, Jon, I need you to move—” 

He draws out slowly, torturously slowly. It’s not enough either. 

“ _Please,_ ” Lovett begs, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. 

Jon’s quiet for a second. _Please what,_ Lovett can almost hear him saying, like now’s any time to taunt him, like Lovett hasn't already been so patient and waited so long. 

“You need to be fucked, don't you,” says Jon instead, starts to roll his hips back into him. “You needed my cock in you so bad, and now you've got it and you're still asking for more. You're _greedy._ ”

“I do, I am, I’m sorry, Jon, I need you so bad, please,” Lovett pleads, tries to fuck back against him faster. 

Jon’s hands tighten on his hips, holds him in place, and stills for a moment. Lovett nearly sobs. “You’re _sorry,_ ” he echoes, then starts moving again, gentle at first. “Oh, sweetheart, no. You don’t ever have to be sorry for needing me to fuck you. It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Jon’s speeding up, fucking him harder now. “It's okay to be greedy, it's not bad to need me—”

“I do, I need you, I need you—” Jon settles into a pace, steady and hard, and Lovett just goes boneless. He falls from his hands to his elbows at some point. He’s not even really sure when it happens. The whole world feels like it’s narrowed down to Jon’s cock, his hands. 

The desk is cool where his arms are pressed along the length of it. One of Jon’s hands is holding his hip; the other is spread flat on his back. 

“Jon, Jon, Jon,” Lovett finds himself half-chanting, drops his head down. Jon’s fucking into him harder, faster now. He’s moved his hands to both grip tight on his hips. Lovett hopes he’ll have bruises. “Professor Favreau—”

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” Jon gasps out, “I’m—fuck—”

“Do it,” Lovett says, breathless, “Come on, I want it, I want your come in me.” He twists a bit to look back over his shoulder at Jon. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted back, just a little. Lovett takes a moment to admire the line of his body, his throat down his chest down to his hips. “Look at me,” he says, and Jon opens his eyes.

He smiles, soft and fond, a startling moment of sweetness. Lovett suddenly feels like he might cry. 

“Don’t look at me,” he amends quickly. Jon laughs, he _laughs_ at him, and Lovett addresses this indignity by squeezing down around his cock. Jon chokes a little bit. Serves him right. “Just—fuck me, come on, you’re close, right? Come in me, Jon, I want to feel it. I want to feel you, just… please!” Lovett doesn’t even know what he’s saying. He remembers, vaguely, that he probably ought to be quiet.

Jon slides a hand up his spine to Lovett’s neck, fists his hand in his hair and yanks his neck up. Lovett lets out a small, sharp moan, and that hand claps over his mouth. Quiet. Right. Yes. Lovett whimpers, but it’s muffled. 

“You never stop _talking,_ ” Jon grits out, “always with something else, God, I should have known even this wouldn’t shut you up—Lovett—”

Lovett can feel the moment he loses it—his body jerks, his hand drops from Lovett’s mouth. His cock pulses, and then—he just feels hot, and wet, and oh, God, that’s Jon’s come, _inside him_ , and he thinks he might faint.

Jon exhales and goes still for a moment, then leans over to press a kiss to the back of his neck. When he pulls out, Lovett gasps, jerks his hips back without meaning to. He just had felt so goddamn full and now—

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jon murmurs, and he presses two fingers back into him. He sounds so collected now, calm, and Lovett doesn’t know how he manages that when he feels like he’s about to fall apart. “Look at you. You just can’t stand to be empty, can you? Need me all the time?”

“Yes,” Lovett says, because what else can he possibly say, “Yes, I need you. Touch me, Jon, please?”

Jon hums, a soft, considering noise, and drags his fingers out slowly. Lovett can feel some of his come leak out along with them, drip down his thigh, and his face flushes hot. 

“You were so good for me,” says Jon and he pulls Lovett up so he’s standing straight, turns him around to face him. “You were so, so good for me.” He kisses him, so softly Lovett barely can process it, and then slowly gets to his knees.

Lovett has to lean back against the desk. He’s not sure his legs will hold him on their own.

“Tell me what you want,” Jon says, looks up at him.

Lovett’s out of words. He just needs to be touched, just needs Jon to let him come. He reaches a hand out, touches Jon’s cheek. “Please,” he says. He wants everything. He doesn’t know how to ask for any of it.

“Do you need me to decide for you?” Jon asks, soothing, sweet. Lovett can’t handle that. He nods, closes his eyes. “Okay, sweetheart, I can do that. I know just what you need.”

Lovett feels a featherlight kiss on his hipbone, then the crook of his thigh. He nearly sobs in frustration, this is _not_ what he needs, he needs Jon to touch his cock, he needs to come, and then Jon kisses the head of his dick. Lovett’s knees buckle.

“Yes, that, please, Jon, I want, I want—” He digs his nails Jon’s shoulder with one hand, brings the other to his own mouth, tries so hard to keep quiet.

Jon’s going to give him what he needs. 

Jon swallows him down to the root, and Lovett lets out a choked sob. He’s so fucking close, and when Jon circles a fingertip around Lovett’s come-slick rim, presses back into him easy as anything, Lovett bites down on his own hand and and comes down Jon’s throat.

Jon swallows and then stays on his knees while Lovett catches his breath, ducks his head and rests his forehead against Lovett’s thigh.

“You were so good,” Jon says again, softer this time. “My good boy.”

Lovett nods, opens his eyes to look down at him. He’s so beautiful. Something tightens in Lovett’s chest, and he touches Jon’s cheek. “Yours,” he agrees. Promises. 

Jon looks up at him and smiles.

“There are literal bowls of free condoms in like, every building in this school,” Lovett says suddenly, the thought occurring to him all at once. “Like, we had options. I could have gone to get something.”

Jon laughs a little bit as he gets to his feet, pulls Lovett in by the hips, and gives him a long, slow kiss. “Next time,” he suggests, with that gap-toothed smile Lovett knows so well.

“Next time,” Lovett echoes, and he smiles back.


End file.
